


Close your eyes and look at me

by lettertoelise



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Jemma and Bobbi are sisters!, Multiverse, Romance, Small scenes of Domestic Bliss, otp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-04 16:04:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5340089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettertoelise/pseuds/lettertoelise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma Simmons hasn't met Leo Fitz before, but she's been dreaming of him since she can remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't handle anything too tightly tied to canon right now, so AU it is!  
> Of course a big shout out to my beta, ezwriter. I kind of threw this in her lap and she was awesome enough to help.  
> Also a thanks to my friend, Jennifer, for cheering me on and letting me throw all my stories at her. 
> 
> I'm planning about 7 chapters to this story and will publish them once, if not twice a week, depending on life. 
> 
> Also - title courtesy of my 4 year old. She was very impressed with herself.

_They toppled hand in hand out of the restaurant, the alcohol making Jemma slightly lightheaded.  She stumbled as the heel of her shoe caught the pavement and she surged forward slightly, reigned in by the reach of Fitz’s steadying hands on her hips, pulling her into his warmth.  Their lips met in a soft kiss before he helped her into the car and darted to his place in the driver’s seat._

_It was raining, light bouncing off the wet streets and catching in the sparkle of the waterdrops suspended on the windows.  They were laughing, his free hand clasped in hers.  Fitz was singing along to “Uptown Funk” on the radio - badly - and Jemma was playfully threatening to make him sleep on the couch if he didn’t stop._

_Neither were prepared for the impact of a car suddenly thrusting itself into the front passenger side wheel-well.  Jemma was thrown forward, the airbag went off, radio still blaring.  Then nothing._

 

***

 

“Fitz!”  Jemma woke in a cold sweat, screaming his name.  She was tangled in the sheets, chest heaving.  It took her a second to recognize where she was.  Slowly the familiar lace curtains and ivory walls came into focus.  Her parent’s house.  Her room.  

 

Bobbi opened the door cautiously and drew a chair to Jemma’s bed.  She must have heard the commotion.  

 

“Another nightmare?”  Bobbi asked, her voice alarmed but collected.  

 

Jemma shook her head, not yet ready to form words.  

 

Bobbi grimaced, brow knit in concern.  “You were doing so well.”

 

Jemma knew Bobbi’s frustration wasn’t directed at her, but she still flinched at the disappointment veiled in her sister’s voice.  Slowly she gained her composure enough to wipe tears from her cheeks and force a smile.  

 

“I’m sorry, Bobbi.  I didn’t mean to scare you.  I have been doing better, really.  Please don’t read too much into this.”  Jemma reached out and grabbed her sister’s hand with a squeeze.  

 

Bobbi returned Jemma's small smile and slowly relaxed.  Although they hadn’t grown up together, Bobbi being her half-sister living an ocean away in America, the two had always been close.  Especially lately.  It seemed Bobbi’s big sister impulses had been on overdrive.  The older woman’s eyes searched Jemma for any further signs of distress.  

 

“Did you still want to see that apartment today?  I can reschedule if you need to rest.”

 

Jemma nodded to reassure her sister.  “Yes.  I’m fine, Bobbi, really.  I’ll meet you downstairs in a minute, okay?”

 

Bobbi shrugged, smoothed a hand affectionately over Jemma’s tangled hair and was gone.  

 

Jemma slung her legs over the side of the bed and let out a long breath.  Her fingers found the notebook in the drawer of her night table and flicked to the next blank page.  

 

_August 15h - Car crash.  Fitz’s status unknown._

 

***

 

The first thing Jemma noticed were the windows.  The left wall was exposed brick soaked in warm sunlight and filled with mysterious nooks and crannies.  Bobbi paced around eyeing the space critically. Jemma made her way onto the balcony and tipped her head back to feel the sun on her skin.  Her eyes closed, she took a deep breath and waited for his face to appear.  

 

It had been happening as long as Jemma could remember.  She called them “dreams” for lack of something more accurate, but it was hardly enough.  She was _there_ ,  transported to a different version of herself, sometimes younger, sometimes older.  She watched through her own eyes, felt through her own skin, and he was always there too - Fitz.  She knew his face better than her own.  His laugh, his anger, his voice were all a part of her.  

 

He’d been her first imaginary friend, his silhouette adorning her childhood artwork and his name slipping into her first stories.  But when Jemma ceased to outgrow him, her parents became worried.  There had been a parade of therapists and counselors, even some specialists. Medications were prescribed to curb her so called “delusions” and Jemma learned to keep him inside.  

 

Bobbi came up behind her, shaking Jemma from her thoughts.  “What do you think, kid?”  

 

“I love it, Bobbi. It’s perfect.”

 

Bobbi started to smile but checked herself quickly with an upturned eyebrow.  “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”  Her voice was soft and questioning.  

 

Jemma beamed and turned back toward the open french doors.  “Did you see how much space there is?  I’ll have plenty of room to paint and set up my lab.  And the brick is the perfect backdrop for my art.”  Jemma nudged her sister playfully.  “I might even let you visit sometimes.”

 

The real estate agent approached, a dowdy woman in her mid 40s, carrying a clipboard.  “You like it?  It does have some nice features.  I hear one of the neighbors is actually a musician.  You might even hear him playing sometimes.  Classical stuff mostly.  Writes for movies, commercials and all that.”

 

Jemma was pleased at the thought.  It seemed fitting her art might now have a soundtrack.  

 

“Yes,”  she answered.  “This will do nicely.”

  


***

 

_She had been here before.  Fitz was sitting at the table, watching her - blue eyes warm with affection.  Jemma loved this kitchen with it’s bright red walls and ancient appliances, the enamel chipped from overuse.  This Jemma, this version of herself, had lined the counter with white and blue tile and crowded the fridge with faces Jemma didn’t recognize._

 

_Fitz’s stare was so intense Jemma found herself laughing as she looked at him.  “What?”_

 

_A smile broke across his face, a soft chuckle escaping.  “Nothing, just thinking, is all.”_

_Jemma leaned forward to rest her elbows on the table across from him, head resting in her palms playfully.  “Thinking about what?”_

_He contemplated for a moment, mouth drawn in a semi-serious line._

_“This.”_

_Jemma was clearly unsatisfied, her eyebrows drawing together with skepticism.  This forced a snicker out of her partner.  Jemma loved the way his face lit with it, the way his eyes sparkled when he was pleased, the soft music of his laughter._

_He lifted himself off the chair, leaning forward to meet her in the middle of the table, pressing their foreheads together._

_“This,” he whispered before she kissed him._

_-When Jemma awoke she could still feel the ghost of his lips on hers, still heady with the scent of him._

 

_September 1st, Red Kitchen x15_

 

***

 

It had happened three months ago, when she’d started to dream about the blue planet, the place where darkness reigned and she was all alone.  The hunger and loneliness clawed at her, chasing her, dreams bleeding into her days until she could no longer tell the difference between what was real and what was not.  The nightmares began, the panic attacks - her family struggled to help but she collapsed inward.  She couldn’t find him in the sand.  She fought against the harsh wind that burned her skin, screaming his name.  But Fitz didn’t answer.  

 

Jemma found herself in the hospital, trying to piece back reality, afraid to sleep, afraid to face the darkness without him.

 

***

 

The french doors to the balcony were swung open to let the apartment breathe in the fresh air.  Jemma had abandoned her work at the desk, a new children’s book project in wait of color.  She circled her “lab” - the workspace where she carefully mixed her own materials and birthed her own hues.  

 

And then she heard it - the delicate melody, a piano carefully at work, the familiar refrain that danced on the wind.  Jemma let herself slide into the rhythm, practiced hands working the pigments between her fingers.  

 

Sometimes the piano was friendless.  Other times Jemma would meet a crowd of string players huddling in the elevator, smothered by the size of their instrument cases, and was later greeted in her apartment by the sound of their warm throaty voices floating in harmony from next door.  

 

Jemma would open the french doors eagerly, inviting the music inside, letting it set the pace of her work.  

 

As the melody dwindled, Jemma set aside her paints and went about cleaning herself up.  The exhibition was in an hour and Bobbi would be there soon to pick her up.  She attempted to tie her hair into a bun, but her hands were shaking, permitting rogue strands to fall loosely in all directions.  Jemma hated these events despite their necessity.  She hated people gawking at her, the awkward questions about her work, the expectation of something she didn’t know how to give.  

 

The buzzer rang and Jemma made her way down the stairs, shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders like a shield.  Bobbi looked fantastic as usual, blonde hair tumbling down her shoulders in waves, red dress flattering all her curves.  She smiled as Jemma approached, enveloping her in reassuring hug.  

 

Hunter, Bobbi’s boyfriend met them at the gallery, grinning good-naturedly as he took Bobbi’s arm.  “You both look lovely.  Don’t worry, Jems, you’ll do fine.  I even invited a friend, I’ll have you know, and I’m looking forward to showing you off.”

 

Jemma couldn’t help but grin at his kind words.  Hunter hated open galleries as much as she did and he gave her a knowing squeeze to the shoulder.  

 

People were slowly trickling in, some familiar - colleagues, acquaintances - others were new.  The showcase consisted of mainly older works from - before.  The opening had been delayed for obvious reasons and Jemma was determined now to be the illustration of recovery, circulating, shaking hands and making small talk.

 

It wasn’t until the first hour had passed that she saw him, staring at a painting from her latest children’s book, hand drawn up to rub at the light dusting of stubble on his chin.  Jemma froze.  She’d stopped breathing - suspended in time.  The sandy curls, sharp brow, slight figure broadened with age - it was so familiar and yet she’d never seen him before.  Not here.  The certainty of reality blurred.  

 

Fitz turned, eyes locking onto hers questioningly.  Jemma tried to shake the image away but she was breaking apart.  

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So - wow. So many beautiful and supportive comments about this fic in the first chapter, you all had me grinning like an idiot all day. I love you all.   
> I wouldn't have the confidence to post here it weren't for you lovely people, so thank you thank you thank you for reading :) 
> 
> I really hope *fingers crossed* that the 2nd chapter and the ones to follow are as fun for you as writing them has been for me. 
> 
> Chapter 3 should be up in a few days.

Five measures - a single stream of notes threaded through his mind, playing on repeat.  They haunted Fitz like a secret, leaking into every song he wrote, bending into every key, adjusting to every rhythm.  Five measures of joyful melancholy.  Even now his fingers were tapping them out on the wooden bar.  

 

“You alright, mate?” Hunter was asking, looking down at his restless friend as he busied himself drying and stacking glasses.  

 

“Yeah, just a bit distracted is all.  Sorry.”  Fitz shook the tension out of his hand and pressed it to the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut and letting out a deep breath.  “What were you saying about Bobbi’s sister?

 

Hunter rested a glass down in front of Fitz and proceeded to fill it.  The younger man nodded gratefully, swirled the contents and drained it, plopping the glass back down unceremoniously.  A knowing grin pulled at Hunter’s lips, he’d seen Fitz like this before.  They’d been friends long enough he knew when the kid had been overextending himself, refusing to leave his apartment until a project was finished.  The telltale signs were all there - the deep pockets under his eyes, the lingering scruff on his chin.  

 

“Yeah, she’s got some gallery opening tonight and I told Bobbi I’d try and spread the word.  You should come.  Seems to me like you could use the break.”

 

Fitz slumped down into this elbows and raked a hand through his hair.  Restlessness had been brewing in him for a while, compounded by the tedious repetition of the refrain in his head and the uncooperative nature of his last few projects.  Perhaps it would be good to get out.  

 

“She any good?” he asked.

 

“Yeah, actually.  Bobbi says children's illustrations are her bread and butter, but her original stuff is good too.”

 

Fitz raised a skeptical eyebrow, slowly catching the blasé tone the bartender was trying to adopt.  “You want me to come so you won’t be stuck talking to a bunch of stuffy art snobs all night, don’t you?”

 

Hunter cackled as his face came alive.  “Yes!” he answered, clapping his hands together enthusiastically.  “You understand me perfectly, mate.  I’m bloody terrible at those things.  You’re at least a musician - you’re used to that boring shite.”

 

Fitz couldn’t help himself but laugh.  “Sure, I’ll go then.  Change of scene might be nice.  Just text me the address.  I’m going to try to get that track recorded and then I’ll stop in.”

 

***

 

Evidence of his temper lingered in every corner of the apartment.  Fitz stepped around the notes and sheet music he’d hastily knocked over in a tantrum and abandoned.  It was just a bathtub commercial, for crying out loud.  But he’d been working on it for days, desperately trying to clear his mind and focus.  

 

Fitz couldn’t pinpoint it, but something had changed.  Something miniscule had upset the balance, tipping him slightly on edge and he couldn’t identify the cause.  He stomped over to throw open the french doors leading to the balcony, the cool air only slightly tempering his sour mood.  

 

By the time he arrived at the gallery Fitz was an hour late.  The turnout was decent and Fitz scanned the herd for Hunter while simultaneously investigating the refreshments.  When he’d eaten his full, well, given his usual appetite, perhaps not entirely his full, Fitz finally decided to take in the artwork around him.  

 

He walked over to a large children’s book illustration - a girl, gently silhouetted against a cream background holding a cherry red umbrella.  It was elegant in it’s simplicity, the brush strokes clean and precise.  

 

When Fitz looked up, he noticed a woman staring at him, the colour drained from her face as though she’d seen a ghost.  She was beautiful, small with an air of poorly executed neatness about her - but her mouth gaped and her legs were starting to fold beneath her.

 

Fitz set off in a sprint, wrapping her in his arms as she collapsed.  Her delicate form was nearly weightless as he carried the her to a nearby bench.  Her dark eyes fluttered open and settled on his face with a fierce intensity as she surprised him by reaching a finger to softly scan the hard line of his jaw.  Her voice was barely audible as she whispered, “Could you be real?”

 

The spell was broken as Bobbi suddenly appeared at the woman’s side and a tall man with sharp features and gruff manner pushed past and announced, “My name is Will Daniels.  I’m a medical doctor, please let me through.”

 

Fitz felt himself fade into the background, the crowd pulling tight around the scene to block his view.  His eyes hunted for her through the mass of onlookers but came away disappointed.  

 

“Bobbi’s going crazy, mate.  What happened?”  Hunter’s voice tore him from his search.  

 

Fitz turned and shrugged helplessly.  “I just saw the girl falling.  I’m - I’m not sure.”  He felt unsettled, pulling his hands through his hair and dragging them down his cheeks.  Fitz racked his brain trying to think of where he might have seen her before but he would have remembered a face like that.  Her eyes, the way she looked at him like she _knew_ him, radiating warmth and confusion, it was so familiar and yet he couldn’t place her.  He could still feel her fingers tracing down his jaw . . .

 

The crowd slowly dispersed and Fitz saw the strong doctor help the woman to her feet, Bobbi bracing her other side.  She turned her head anxiously, perhaps looking for him in the throng of people, but her back was to him now.

 

“So that’s the sister, then?”  Fitz felt the question topple out but Hunter caught it.

 

“Yep.  That’s Jemma.”

 

“Jemma.”  It fit her somehow, the syllables so familiar in his mouth, like he’d said it a million times.  

 

Fitz hung around pacing anxiously for another half hour but Jemma didn’t reappear.  Most of the guests had left and he could see Bobbi walking around, closing everything down.  He made his way to her and Hunter gestured toward Fitz for the introduction.

 

“Bobbi, love, this is the friend I was telling you about.  The musician.  Fitz.”

 

Fitz held out a hand but Bobbi stiffened and flinched at his name.  

 

“Fitz?” she repeated, the word thick on her tongue.  “Weren’t you the one who carried Jemma to the bench . . .”  Bobbi’s voice trailed off as she stared at him and Fitz felt the agitation in his chest rising.  He wanted to run.  

 

“Alright then,” he ventured, breaking the oppressive silence and bringing a hand to scratch the back of his neck nervously.  “I think I’m going to call it a night.  Nice to meet you, Bobbi.  Let me know how it works out.”

 

The moment was heavy with awkwardness as he made his exit, Bobbi’s eyes still on him with a thousand questions in her unreadable expression.  

  
He welcomed the darkness of his apartment, the opportunity to collect his thoughts, but hadn’t expected the silence.  The refrain, circling in his head for days had gone quiet - leaving Fitz with her words on his lips - “Could you be real?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fitz's refrain mentioned is inspired by the reoccurring theme in Olafur Arnald's "Eulogy for Evolution" series. (Especially 3055 and 0952). If you were curious. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got this out a little earlier than I thought! Yay! I hope you are still enjoying it!  
> Thanks again for all the lovely comments and kudos! You are all amazing!
> 
> And thanks again, as usual, to my lovely beta and constant cheerleader, ezwriter, who answers my desperate plot related texts at all hours of the night. Because who sleeps?

_Fitz looked so young, maybe 18?  He was clean shaven, his curls slightly unkempt, and a complete nervous mess.  They were supposed to be stargazing, but his trembling hands were struggling to assemble the telescope.  He was muttering a stream of expletives under his breath and Jemma was rocking back and forth, amused, on the blanket._

_“We don’t need the telescope, Fitz, just come sit next to me already.”_

_He wasn’t listening to her, stubborn as usual.  Jemma laid back and stretched out on the blanket, lacing her fingers behind her head.  Where were they in the story, she wondered.  Still just friends?  Bordering on something more?_

_Deciding to be bold, Jemma reached up to grab Fitz’s hand away from his task and pull him down beside her.  He toppled, his face a reflection of shock, and landed by her side with a thump - Jemma, of course, was already laughing.  It was one of those deep belly laughs, vibrating straight through her and she could feel Fitz finally relax._

_“Don’t blame me if you can barely see Saturn,” he complained playfully._

_Jemma calmed herself down and rolled to look at him.  Fitz stayed on his back but his jaw was twitching and even in the twilight she could make out the blush creeping up his neck._

_Ah, they haven’t kissed yet, Jemma concluded.  But he wants to._

_October 10th, Stargazing.  First kiss._

 

***

Bobbi had insisted on walking Jemma up to her apartment.  The doctor, Will was his name, had checked her thoroughly, but her health was confirmed and she’d been given the clear to go home.  Bobbi, however, seemed particularly uneasy.  She kept darting concerned looks in Jemma’s direction, like there were words on her lips she was holding back.  Perhaps it was her distress at the familiarity of the scenario - panic attacks interrupting an otherwise pleasant evening - but something was different.  

 

As Bobbi sealed the door behind them, Jemma turned to her sister, eyes blown wide with realization.  “You saw him too, didn’t you?”

 

Bobbi froze, caught.  “I’m not sure.  The man who helped you, Hunter’s friend - he said his name was Fitz.”

 

Jemma released the breath she had been holding all evening.   _He was real_.  

 

“Listen Jemma, I know what you’re thinking.”  Bobbi’s voice was serious, warning.  “I’m not sure it’s healthy to pursue this.  What if-”

 

“But it’s him.”  Jemma whispered.

 

“Jemma, please.”

 

Jemma shook her head fiercely.  “Goodnight, Bobbi.”

 

***

 

She barely slept, her dreams coming in disconnected fragments, impossible to piece together.  Jemma couldn’t tell if her mind was finally pulling together or bursting apart.

 

Finally she lifted herself from the bed and balled up on the floor over large piece of heavy weight drawing paper.  Charcoal was always her favorite for drawing him, so tactile.  She pushed into the angles of his face, fingers pulling at the shadows of his neck.  Sometimes she drew him young, like he looked in the lives where they were still just friends, mouth full and eyes bright.  Other times she textured his face with age, as he looked when they are old and retired, settled in a cottage in Perthshire.  Now she drew him as he had looked at the gallery - bewildered, handsome, _real._  

 

Her fingers tangled in the lines of his curls, lingered over the curve of his lips.  Jemma continued until she was black up to her elbows, canvas spent.  She was finally ready to give in to the exhaustion that was tugging at her, pulling the lids slowly down over her eyes.  

 

Jemma awoke from the first dreamless sleep she’d had in a while, curled up on the couch, squinting at the daylight accosting her from the balcony.  She could hear music, gently pressing on the walls from next door and she rose to open a window and let it in.  The familiar refrain greeted her like a friend and she closed her eyes in welcome.

 

Then she remembered.  Hunter.  Looking at her watch Jemma wondered how early his shift started at the bar.  Not for hours.  She decided to text him.

 

 **Jemma** :  What was the name of the friend you invited to the opening?  I wanted to thank him.  

 

No answer.  Jemma paced.  

 

A full 36 minutes passed before her phone buzzed.

 

 **Hunter** :  Fitz.  Decent bloke.  You want his number?

 

Jemma stared at the letters of his name spelled out on the screen.  

 

 **Jemma** :  Yes, please.

 

 **Hunter** :  Sending you my contact.  Glad you are feeling better.

 

Jemma suddenly needed to sit down.  The anxiety thumping in her chest made the brightness of the living room unbearable, so she slunk into her bedroom, cloaking herself in the quiet darkness.

 

Fitz.  

 

Of course she loved him.  She loved him before she had even understood what love meant.  She envied those other Jemmas and the lives they were able share with him, the cruel nature of her dreams having never been completely lost on her.  Only afforded the glimpses of a visitor, Jemma yearned to be the one who memorized one constant timeline, enjoyed anniversaries, watching Fitz age and her children grow slowly from one day to the next.     

 

Jemma hesitated, rubbing her fingers over the buttons deliberately.  Nerves clutched her stomach tight but she dialed the number and hit send.  She couldn’t breathe when Fitz answered the phone.  

 

“Fitz”  The familiar Scottish accent was sleepy, almost as though he’d yawned his name, but Jemma couldn’t find her voice.

 

“Hullo?” he continued, puzzled.

 

Tears welled in Jemma’s eyes and she hung up, angrily throwing her phone down on the bed with a scream.  Devastated with her own cowardice, she buried her face in her pillow, body shaking.     

 

***

 

_Fitz’s eyes were red and glassy, his hands propped tensely on his hips from where he stood, having just turned toward her in the doorway._

_“You can’t leave like this.”  Jemma was pleading.  He let out a ragged sigh and lifted a hand to rub a bristled chin._

_“We’re cursed, Jemma,” he said, swallowing roughly.  “We had years, side by side - never occurred to us.  And then, when it does we don’t have the courage to talk about it.  Now you’ve got this job in Chicago and - and you know I can’t come with you.”_

_Tears were raining down Jemma’s cheeks but she was cemented to the ground.  “I won’t take it, I’ll stay here.  We’ll take care of your mum together.”  Her words shook with the heat of her sobs as she spoke promises she couldn’t keep._

_Fitz walked toward her, pulling her face into his hands.  His voice was so tender.  “Jemma, no.  I won’t let you sacrifice yourself for me.”_

_Her fingers wrapped around his, eyes drowning in sadness.  Jemma wanted to scream at this translation of herself - make it right, but she was trapped.  For every happy moment there were always the ones laced with grief.  She was doomed to feel them all, a witness to the joy as much as the heartbreak._

_October 11th, Chicago 13x.   Last Kiss._

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So early update today and then I have to make myself take the next few days off and give some attention at at least one of my three jobs :/ But I'm so blown away by the incredible response to this and the beautiful comments you have been leaving. I've just been wrapping up all your kind words in my heart for safe keeping and revisiting them in my moments of writing insecurity. You are all wonderful. 
> 
> A shout out to Jennifer for giving this a read through and reassuring me I am on the right track. I hope you like it!

Fitz’s restlessness continued into the next day.  He’d been up half the night, arguing with his tuning levers and wedges in an unnecessary effort to retune the piano.  Tinkering with his equipment had always been the way he cleared his mind, trying instead to focus on the clean resonance of the third intervals, listening to ensure the unblemished nature of their clarity.  But today it hadn’t been enough.  He found himself making modifications to his soundboard, his mixer half in pieces as he attempted to adjust the balance.  

 

Jemma Simmons was haunting him.  It was impossible, he didn’t even know her, but somehow her fingers on his skin had left him with her imprint.  

 

The walls of his apartment were slowly becoming oppressive and he resigned himself to taking a walk and stopping at a coffee shop to work on his laptop.  The sun was shining but fall’s crisp air had finally started to chill and Fitz hugged his coat tight around his shoulders.

 

The coffee shop was a few blocks away, affording him enough of a walk in the cold air to feel refreshed but not so long he couldn’t get there in under twenty minutes.  Next to Hunter’s pub, it was one of his favorite places in the city.  Broken into two sections, the shop was lined with bookshelves and bits of dusty memorabilia.  Fitz liked to sit in the back corner, hidden from view, or sometimes he would tap out a tune on the cranky upright resting opposite.  

 

It was busy today and Fitz inwardly groaned as he was forced to deviate from his normal routine and sat grumpily in the front section by the window.  His tea was cold by the time he looked up from his computer to sip at it and he leaned back, annoyed.  

 

Someone was at the piano.  Fitz loved the distorted metallic quality of the old instrument.  But he sat up straight as the gentle plinking strung itself together into a familiar melody.  His refrain - the one that had been plaguing him for months.  But how?

 

His body moved of it’s own accord, as though drawn by some siren song, abandoning everything at the table and moving to peek past the partition.  

 

Though he’d only seen her once, somehow he knew her immediately - auburn hair foiling any attempts at order, delicate build, sitting upright at the piano with one hand teasing out the notes.  Fitz walked over to stand over her shoulder.  

 

“Hey.  Good to see you’re up and about.”

 

Jemma snapped toward him, beaming when her eyes found his with startled recognition.  Fitz’s smile was small, sheepish in the light of hers.  He found himself stuttering.  “How’d - how’d you know my song?”

 

“Your song?”

 

Fitz sat down beside her, keenly aware of the brush of her shoulder against his, and laid out his fingers over the keys.  It was the first time the notes had meaning, suddenly developing a new color, drawing out from him new embellishments.  When he finished, they sat for a moment, drinking in the silence and quietly blushing at one another.  

 

Jemma chuckled and lifted a hand to rub at her eyebrow, nervously.  “I think you might be my neighbor.”

 

Fitz’s laugh escaped as a bark.  “Really?”

 

She giggled, “Yeah, I hear you play all the time.  It’s lovely.”

 

Fitz looked away, timidly.  “I’m glad you think so.  I mean - the last neighbor used to find it quite aggravating.”

 

The way she looked at him was disarming and he found himself lost for words again, left only with the red lingering in his cheeks.  

 

“Would you like to, um - I’ve got, - I mean, my stuff -” he was gesturing toward the table where he’d sat before, eyes pleading she would understand despite the failing of his tongue.  

 

“Yes.”

 

***

 

They walked home together, hands hanging loosely to their sides, occasionally sweeping knuckles and sending a shiver up Fitz’s spine.  She’d told him of her work over tea, about the experiments she did with color and texture.  He told her about his mum, how she’d worked two jobs to finance his music lessons.  It was so easy, unlike any conversation Fitz had ever had.  He’d never been particularly skilled at making friends, Hunter being one of the few exceptions.  Girlfriends had been even more rare, the only women he usually met being involved in their own string section drama.  With Jemma things were different and yet familiar, like he’d known her forever but was meeting her for the first time.  

 

The doors to the two apartments were staggered, explaining why they’d not seen each other before.  They ran up the stairs, giggling, bursting through their respective entrances and meeting one another breathless on their adjoining balconies.  Seeing her standing there, so close this whole time - Fitz burst out laughing, the two of them doubled over, tears welled up in their eyes, until they were gasping for air.  

 

He found himself inviting her over, eagerly giving her a tour of his studio like a four year old at show and tell.  They sat at his piano, fingers overlapping.  His melody now belonged to her.  Those five measures - they were the sound of her fingers on his skin, in his hair, threading through his mouth on her tongue.  

 

Pulling back slightly, he found himself blushing again.  “I don’t usually do this,” he explained, hesitantly.  “You know, invite girls I barely know into my apartment and start kissing them.  I’m not a creeper.”  

  
Jemma only smiled.  “I know.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this chapter a few times, trying to sort out which direction I wanted it to go. I finally decided to have them meet over music, because, where Fitz lives in Jemma's dreams, I like to think, for Fitz, Jemma lives in his music. It's like the magnet that pulls them together. The refrain entered his mind when she moved in next door, kind of subconsciously alerting him that something was going on, etc.   
> Anyway, I hope it's working for you ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter has been sort of a labor of love. So after lots of revisions and rethinking and late night texts to my wonderful betas, here it is. 
> 
> The response to this story has been so incredibly overwhelming, I'm honestly blown away with the amazingness of you all. I just hope this chapter lives up to your expectations *fingers crossed* 
> 
> I'll try to have the next chapter up by the end of the week!

Jemma was sitting up in bed, blinking into the moonlit haze of her bedroom.  It was a moment before the familiarity of the scene dawned on her, her desk still in it’s rightful place in the corner, homemade paper lanterns still strung over her head.  The cold winter air hit her bare shoulders and she shivered as she pulled the blankets in closer.  It was the shake of the bed beneath her she found surprising, the agitated groan of a man very dedicated to sleep.  Fitz was tossing, listlessly reaching for his share of the covers, and Jemma remembered.  This wasn’t a dream.  

 

She lay back down gently, careful not to further disturb him, and slowly edged herself into the hole he’d made under his shoulder.  Unconsciously his arm tightened around her and he drew Jemma up to rest her head on his chest.  He smelled of sleep and sandalwood and something so distinctly _him_.    

 

This Fitz, _her_ Fitz, was different from the others, yet the same.  He still retained the wry smile that crept across his mouth after the nonchalant insertion of a sly joke, his hands were still always busy, his stubbornness and Scottish temper constant.  Discovering the differences had become her secret game, testing to see if he still giggled when she tickled under his ribs, or if his breath still hitched when she nibbled under his ear.  But sometimes he would hesitate, almost as if in the middle of a breath, just to look at her - and it rendered Jemma speechless.  In the end, she discovered, the similarities and differences didn’t matter, he was the only one she wanted.     

 

***

 

He’d scoffed when she’d shared the menu.  “Vegetarian, really?” he’d grumbled.  “Because I like you, I’ll humour you.”

 

Fitz was leaning over the kitchen island, elbows resting on the counter and Jemma turned to face him, pressing herself against the cupboards opposite.  They wore matching smiles and he shrugged, capitulating, “What did you need help with?”

 

She tossed him a head of cauliflower and soon he was busying himself with the chopping, Jemma left stirring the pot of soup on the stove as she hummed and swayed her hips to the radio.  

 

She melted at the unexpectedness of his arms around her, conforming to her rhythm as he grinned into her ear.  “If you keep distracting me, the lentils are going to stick,” she warned.  

 

“Is that bad? You know how I love lentils.” he muttered sarcastically, peppering her neck with soft kisses.

 

Jemma was only half genuine, however, as she abandoned the spoon in the pot and Fitz swiveled her around, meeting her lips with his own.  She lifted a hand to trace down Fitz’s neck but he caught it in his, pressing into her palm and spreading her fingers wide.  Gently he shadowed his lips across hers, tilting her head back as she pulled him in deeper.  She was lost.  

 

Breathless, they jumped apart when the smoke detector began to sound, Fitz rubbing the back of his neck in adorable sheepishness, his face turning her favorite color, and Jemma reached to pull the device from the wall.  

 

“This thing is so sensitive.  I’m only preheating the oven!” she wailed.  He kissed her temple lightly before retreating and Jemma instantly missed the warmth of him wrapped around her.  

 

Fitz must have seen her shiver.  “I can grab you a sweater?” he offered.  

 

Jemma beamed.  “That would be lovely! I’ve got a few hanging in the hall closet, if you don’t mind!”

 

She was surprised when he didn’t come back right away.  Jemma finished coating the cauliflower with oil, placing the dish in the oven.  He was still missing.

 

“Fitz?”  Jemma rounded the corner to find him rooted in front of the closet, bracing himself with one arm against the doorframe.  His cheerful smile had vanished and the look he wore on his face was new, uncomprehending.  As she approached he straightened slightly and leaned back into the support of a bent elbow.  

 

“Jemma - what is all this?” he asked, his voice wounded.  In front of him stood a stack of charcoal drawings.  Jemma stepped forward, nausea bending into her stomach as she winced at her work with recognition.

 

“At first I was flattered, but then I noticed the dates in the corner . . . Jemma, they predate when we met at the gallery.”

 

Jemma looked at him pleading but no ready explanation presented itself.  How could she explain? - _I’ve been dreaming of you._

 

She could tell Fitz’s mind was reeling as he stared down at his hands, contemplating the different possible scenarios.   “I just don’t understand, Jemma.  Why - why would you have drawings of me from years ago?  And bloody hell - in this one I’m what? 70 years old?  What the hell is going on?”

 

“I wanted to tell you.  Fitz, you’d never believe me . . .” she started, but the words dissolved in her mouth.  

 

His eyes snapped to her with alarm, as though she’d just confirmed his worst fears, his evident hurt twisting her heart.  “So is everything just a lie, then?” Fitz shook his head.  “Wha- has this whole thing with us . . . is it all just a set up?  Did you fall so that I would catch you?”

 

“No - I wouldn’t-”  

He was so desperate in his confusion, Jemma couldn’t help but release the gasping sob she’d been keeping inside.  She’d become so accustomed to the transparency in his eyes, the emotion Fitz wore on his sleeve like a badge, that this new ambivalence was cruel.  His expression was a riddle she couldn’t solve, something she couldn’t fix.      

 

Fitz had started pacing, no longer able to contain the turbulence of his emotions, his hands perched on his hips, knuckles white.  He looked sick, the color in his facing having drained fully, replaced instead with a pallid grey.  Jemma could only imagine what was going through his mind, the questions he must have.  

 

“There’s something wrong with me, Fitz.  I have these dreams - I can’t explain it.  I’ve been dreaming of you.  My whole life”  

 

“You’ve been dreaming of me.” his tone was flat, disappointed.  “That’s impossible, Jemma.”

 

Tears flooded Jemma’s eyes, blurring her vision and she reached for Fitz’s hand but he pulled away.     

 

“I know it sounds demented.” Jemma paused suddenly, her mouth arcing into an ironic smile, “Trust me, I’ve spent years trying to figure it out, trying to control it or just make it stop.  But then . . . I met you.”

 

Jemma thought back to all of the notebooks she’d filled, the records she’d kept, chronicling her dreams, looking for answers.  There had never been a discernable pattern, only him.  

 

Fitz was watching her intensely  and he let out a heated breath, hands eclipsing his face as he pulled them down over his chin.  He’d ceased his constant motion, now staring at the floor, eyes wide with disbelief.      

 

“I don’t know, Jemma.  This whole thing.  It’s too much for me.”  He looked raw, beaten, his initial shock and anger having resigned itself to a stoic defeat.  

 

“Fitz, please.”  she whispered.  His silence was oppressive, bearing down on her as she watched his internal struggle work itself through the twitching of his fingers, the anxious bounce in his knees.  

 

Finally Fitz turned toward her, his voice resolute.  “I just - I need some time, OK?”  He deliberated as he walked past, lifting a hand as though he might gently brush the tears from her cheek before pulling back and walking out the door.  

 

***

 

_She was listening to the rain patter against the large library windows, intrigued by the distant rumble of thunder, when the librarian caught her attention and nodded severely at the cart of books needing to be reshelved.  Sighing, Jemma stood and gathered her energy to push the cumbersome cart all the way up to the 500s._

_The stacks were nearly abandoned, only a few dedicated students left to dot the various tables and desks hiding in the corners.  As tedious as her job sometimes was, Jemma never tired of the smell of old books or the satisfying firmness of their covers under her fingers.  It was easy to detect the holes where her new charges belonged and she eased them back home with a gentle tap._

_Slipping out from the stacks, she found herself blindsided by a cardigan clad boy, roughly her size, books spilling from his hands to litter the floor.  He blushed and scrambled to collect what he’d dropped, mumbling a faint, “Sorry.”_

_Jemma reached out to help him, her fingers lightly brushing his as they moved in unison to grab the same textbook.  He looked up at her with startled blue eyes and the lights flickered as thunder cracked overhead._

_“Let me help you with that,” Jemma offered as he struggled to sweep all of the books once again back into his arms.  She grabbed a few off the top to pile them on her cart while the boy shifted everything into place._

_“Thanks,” he answered shyly.  “I’m, um, Fitz.”_

_“Fitz?” she repeated with amusement._

_The boy smiled, and it Jemma could swear she’d seen him somewhere before.  “Yeah, it’s Leopold, actually.  But nobody actually calls me that.”_

_His grin was infectious and she found herself returning it.  “I’m Jemma.  Jemma Simmons.”_

_  
December 2nd.  Introductions.  1x_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is out a bit later than I intended - this week destroyed me. I could not get myself together to make this chapter work, but the lovely ezwriter was absolutely invaluable in helping me talk through my ideas and fill in the gaps. SO without her this would have been a complete disaster. She is wonderful. 
> 
> Also - thanks again for all of the lovely comments. I LOVE THEM. :) They give me inspiration, make me think about different aspects of the story - man, I just can't get enough. Thank you Thank you. 
> 
> One chapter left after this, I'm going to say it should be out within the week? *fingers crossed*

Rehearsal ended hours ago, the orchestra had long since packed their things and left, but Fitz remained at the piano, filling the studio with Debussy.  

 

_Clair de Lune_ \- one of the first pieces he’d ever played for an audience, his fingers still remembered delicate melody and they rippled over the notes now, his body swaying captive to the rhythm.  Playing was easy, it was always the performance that challenged him, the weight of his own insecurity never quite fading into the background.  He could always be better.  Today his fingers on the ivory did nothing to calm the duet of listlessness and irritation swelling inside him.  Frustrated, he broke, running his hands violently down the keys and then back again to press at the bridge of his nose.  When he opened his eyes, his producer, Mack, was beside him.  

 

“Still here?”  the large man asked.

 

Fitz shrugged, “Where else do I have to be?”  

 

“Rehearsal ended hours ago.  It’s time for you to pack up, get some rest.”  Mack’s tone was gruff but edged with concern.  The two of them had always gotten on, sharing a common interest in the mechanics of sound, having spent hours together in the studio manipulating the music that came through the speakers.    

 

He knew Mack could see through him, if not from his overtime at the studio then by the way he’d earlier nearly brought the second violinist to tears.  “Why the bloody hell do I hear vibrato?  We want to suspend the note not strangle it!” he’d growled, immediately regretting his temper as the young woman’s face crumbled.       

 

“I’m sorry about today,” Fitz said quietly.  He was sitting with his legs straddling the bench, half turned, raising his eyebrows in worry and sweeping a hand through his hair.  

 

Mack chuckled, “Well, maybe you didn’t express yourself well, but . . . you weren’t wrong about that vibrato.”

 

A weak smiled formed itself on Fitz’s face and he nodded appreciatively.  

 

“Go home, Fitz.”  

 

Fitz brought the cover down over the keyboard.  “I’m goin’ for a drink.”

 

***

 

The walk to Hunter’s pub was cold and Fitz hurried, bent into the winter wind with hands stuffed forcibly into pockets.  Frost clawed at the windows and he was relieved at the breath of warm air greeting him as he finally reached the door.  

 

Hunter poured a drink before his friend sat down and Fitz promptly emptied it.  

 

“You look terrible, mate,” the man observed wryly.  Fitz only groaned and collapsed into his elbows, hunched almost far enough over that his forehead  could brush the wooden bar.  

 

His hair was unkempt, his button-up and cardigan creased and recycled from the day before.  Fitz hadn’t slept in days, hadn’t been to his apartment in even longer.  He needed time, space, to process the cacophony of thoughts swirling through his mind.   

 

Initially, he’d run through every scenario, drafting theories to explain the existence of the drawings he’d discovered in Jemma’s closet and her obvious intention to conceal them.  The immediacy of his confusion and the feelings of betrayal had slowly dulled, replaced instead with the image of Jemma’s tear streaked face and trembling lower lip.  She’d slipped so effortlessly into his life, like a puzzle piece he hadn’t known was missing.  He couldn’t be angry with her.  But he was afraid.  

 

He felt like he’d fallen into something he couldn’t pull himself out of, like he was connected to something he didn’t understand.  He knew he should think Jemma was crazy, that it was impossible for him to have existed in her dreams, but somehow . . .

 

Fitz slunk deeper down into the bar, sipping at his drink and mindlessly letting the television in the corner distract him.  He didn’t notice Bobbi enter until he spotted Hunter’s telling nod in her direction.  She approached, pulling up a stool beside him.  

 

“Can we talk?”

 

Fitz shrugged.  The blond woman’s expression was calculated seriousness.  She motioned to a booth in the corner and he followed slowly, his body suddenly made of lead.  

 

Purpose defined Bobbi’s movements and she folded her hands on the table, her straight posture in strict contrast to Fitz’s crumpled exterior.  Lifting his eyes to meet hers, she answered the question before he could even ask.

 

“Jemma’s OK.  She’s hanging in there.”  Bobbi softened.  Drawing up her bag on the bench she pulled out a worn spiral bound sketchpad and laid it gently on the table.

 

“Even though we grew up apart, Jemma and I were always close.  Spending summers together, sharing secrets.”  Bobbi paused, looking away.  “It took me a while to accept that Jemma was different.  My mom called them delusions, but I had always just thought of them as stories.  She would talk as though she were living two separate lives.  Everything was so vivid.  But - I never really believed her - until that night at the gallery.”  

 

“You think it’s true, then?”

 

Bobbi nodded.  “My sister has had a lifetime of people doubting her.  She’s been through hell.  Now I'm sitting across from the last person I ever expected to meet."

 

They were both quiet for a moment, Fitz lost in thought and Bobbi staring down at the table.   

 

“I should have believed her from the start.”  Bobbi said suddenly, her eyes meeting his with a gravity Fitz hadn’t expected.  She slid a sketchbook in his direction.  “Jemma gave this to me when she was in high school.  I think she was afraid our mom would find it.  I think you should hold on to it for a while.”  

 

She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze and made motion to leave, Fitz’s gaze left resting on the threadbare cover, fingers tracing the outline of Jemma’s name, scrawled in pen across the top.  

 

The drawings themselves, while still impressive, were raw in their immaturity, giving Fitz a new respect for the sophistication of Jemma’s later work.  He was no longer surprised to recognize his face among the pages; it was the details, however, that caught his attention.  The way she’d captured the subtlety of his mannerisms, the bow of his head as he scratched the back of his neck or the exact tilt of his mouth when widening into a smile.  They were too exact, as though etched into her memory by endless repetition.  He could see the marks where she’d lingered, doting on his features, having erased and redrawn the lines until the pencil’s indent was made permanent.  It was impossible.  

 

Could you be real?  She’d whispered.  He remembered her expression of disbelief.

 

Fitz slowly worked his way through Jemma’s past, tracing her lines with his finger, trying to imagine the face of the girl who’d created them.       

  
When her lips had brushed his, had she wanted to kiss _him_ instead, this man in the drawings who’d borrowed his face?  How could he compare to a dream?  


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! I hope you like it!!! So so so many thanks again for all the lovely comments and support as I have worked through this fic. It really means so very much to me, not only pushing me to write more, but I can also see myself improving, so I have all of you to thank for that.
> 
> Secondly - I'm dedicating this chapter to my beta, ezwriter, because, a few weeks ago, when I pitched the idea for the conclusion to her, her response was, "What if we do this . . ." and her idea was sooo much better and comprehensive than anything I'd come up with. So thanks, friend, for letting me hop on your idea train and ride with you to the station.

The world went soft when the door clicked behind him - the buzz in Jemma’s ears growing louder with the thrum of her heartbeat.  A part inside her had snapped, releasing a flood of frustration.  Her anger at the injustice of having finally found Fitz but being unable to keep him was overwhelming.  Jemma, it seemed, was now living the pattern of her dreams.

 

There had been tension building inside her, mounting as she faced a lifetime of doubt, never truly knowing where the line of reality blurred into fiction.  Snatching the stack of portraits from the floor, Jemma’s fingers bit into the paper and she tore them apart, the cherished faces falling to the ground in pieces, like leaves in a storm.  Something between a scream and a sob escaped her throat as she sunk to the floor, limbs possessed as they struck out at every surface, sending everything in their wake crashing down beside her.

 

After a while, the lentils began to burn and the air filled with their sour smokiness.  Pulling herself up, Jemma turned off the heat and took the cauliflower, now withered, from the oven.   Her anger had washed into numbness, her movements mechanical as she fought to keep herself upright.  

 

The weakness in her legs brought her back to that night in the gallery, the way reality bent, held in place only by the concrete presence of Fitz beside her.  In that moment she had found her truth and it had been reinforced by the impact of his world colliding with hers. It was as though they had been spinning around one another for an eternity, only having just now been pulled into orbit.  The reminders of him, his reedy scent on her clothes, the artifacts left abandoned in her apartment (notes, stray jumpers, his toothbrush), had all served to solidify her certainty in the world around her.  Fitz was real and her dreams were real and she was truth.

 

And now he was gone.

 

Jemma took a deep breath and swept her hands across her cheeks into her hair, tangling her tears with the silky brown strands.   _Her_ life.  Not a dream.  She was in control.  

 

When her wooden joints finally softened, she found herself drawn to her work station. Jemma prepped the welcoming glass surface with a few tablespoons of linseed oil and some dry pigment from her collection.  It was therapeutic, working the the two together with her palette knife, sweeping the outside paste toward the center until she recognized the familiar creamy quality of her desired consistency.  Two separate entities twisted into one.   

 

Satisfied, the brushes were one by one invited as Jemma spread herself thin over the canvas.  Soft strokes defined the reach of his piano, bright taps of color eclipsed the blanket of light spilling into Fitz’s studio.  She played at the blush of his fingers deftly spread over ivory keys and hesitated over the shadow resting on his closed eyes when he lost himself to the downbeat.   Jemma focused on Fitz’s singularities, the qualities so distinctly his.  This was her love song - meant only for him.  

 

***           

 

_Jemma’s eyes adjusted to the dim light of the hospital room, the white of the walls turned blue from the lonely fluorescent bulb in the corner.  Although the blinds were drawn, she assumed it must be nighttime and she started to raise herself from her slumped position when the complaint of her fractured body stopped her.  Jemma let out a hiss as she worked to prop herself up, the heavy weight of her casts making her movements awkward.  Her hand fumbled for the metal bar next to the bed for support and she gripped it, knuckles white.  Her right arm and leg were stiffly suspended in plaster - but she had been lucky._

_The errant car may have struck Jemma’s side first, but as they were pushed into oncoming traffic, it was Fitz who . . ._

_He was spread out on the bed, his body a collage of injuries, but his face was peaceful as he slept.  At least he was spared from the pain, for now._

_Jemma couldn’t reach him.  Flattening herself against the back of the chair, she tried to edge her shoulder closer but it wasn’t enough.  Her fingers pulled at his blankets but she lacked leverage._

_Groaning as the sharp sting of pain vibrated through her right side, she shifted, pressing the ball of her foot into the floor to gain height.  She was able to throw her weight slightly forward and she pulled herself up, finally able to wrap her left arm on the bed bar and haul her body to half standing._

_Fitz had been in the coma nine days, peacefully oblivious to the aftermath of the wreck.  Jemma’s eyes traced the lines on his face, the brush of hair on his chin, the light eyelashes at rest on a soft cheek._

_At this position she could finally take his hand, tangling his fingers between her own and drawing small circles on his skin with her thumb.  One last wheeze of pain as she bent to place her head on his chest, listening for the reassuring beat of his heart._

_“Come back to me.”_

_January 3rd,   Car crash.  2x_

***

 

The silence had stretched on, at first for days, then weeks.  Fitz had said he needed time and so she waited.  

 

Reports came from Bobbi via Hunter, but the details were sparse and Bobbi’s even tone betrayed little.  Jemma found herself leaving the windows open despite the cold, hoping in vain for evidence of that familiar strike of the piano.  

 

The days resumed their usual monotony, occasionally interrupted by the faithful visits of her sister.  Projects were acquired and completed.  Time passed slowly.  

 

Jemma was perched on the bar stool at the counter, bent deep over a copy of the Sunday crossword when she heard it.  It was faint at first, almost ethereal, the delicate rhythm of his refrain, the five measures to call her home.  

 

Fitz had left the door to his apartment slightly ajar and the melody spilled into the hallway, folding itself into a different key and adapting to a new tempo.  Jemma stopped suddenly, taking a deep breath before timidly pressing her fingers against the wood, slowly revealing the space beyond.  

 

Fitz’s head was bent over the keyboard, fingers racing, the apartment smelling unexpectedly of spices and heat.  And then he looked up and the music stopped.  He’d brought himself to standing, eyebrows raised and a hand lifted to pull at his chin.  Jemma smiled.  He was nervous.

 

Her legs moved of their own accord, sprinting across the living room to close the space between them.  Flinging herself into his arms, she wrapped around him and Fitz braced himself to absorb the impact.  She buried her face in his shoulder like the space was designed for her and she felt him sink into her embrace.  

 

“I’m so sorry, Jemma,”  Fitz mumbled into her shoulder.  Jemma immediately shook her head and pulled away to look at him.  His blue eyes were glassy under raised eyebrows and they met hers, full with regret.  

 

“No.” she said firmly.  “Nothing to apologize for.”  Her voice shook, “You came back.”

 

“'Course I did,” he whispered.

 

They were silent for a while, foreheads pressed together, arms entwined.

 

“Do you think they’re real?  Your dreams?” he asked, finally.

 

Jemma shivered.  “I don’t care if they are.”  Pausing for a moment, she nibbled at her lower lip.  “This is the only version of us that I want.”

 

Fitz caught her eye for a moment before leaning forward, lips pressing against hers.  It was soft and slow at first, tentative, as though both afraid the other might disappear.  When they found their rhythm, the world fell away, existing only within the realm of urgent touches, the fervent push and pull of their mouths.  Her hand tangled itself in his hair, his arms at her hips, drawing her forward.  

 

It was the chirp of the smoke detector that brought them back to reality.  They jumped apart, lips swollen and red, hearts pounding in unison.  “Are you cooking something?!”  Jemma asked, remembering having spotted the pot on the stove as she’d entered the room.  

 

“Bloody vegetarian lentils!”  Fitz cried, rushing to violently pull the batteries out of the device and storming over to turn the heat off the stove.  “I - I forgot to stir them.”

 

The sudden look of realization on Jemma’s face quickly gave way to laughter, the deep throaty kind, and she tilted her head back, slapping her hands against her thighs.  Fitz broke into a smile and his soft chuckle grew, echoing her enthusiasm until they both collapsed beside one another on the floor, tears streaming down their cheeks.  

 

“You’re not roasting cauliflower too, are you?”  Jemma asked, weakly, still recovering.

 

“Oh hell!” Fitz groaned and he pulled himself up to flick the oven off and pull out the ruined mess.  Jemma was laughing again, rolling on the floor.  She squawked as he lowered himself on top of her, burying her giggles with his kisses.  This, she thought.  Just this.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it! I have it in my mind to maybe add an epilogue if there is anyone interested. 
> 
> Also- I'm on tumblr now, so let's be friends? I'm totally looking for ideas for my next fic, so I would love suggestions. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This really is the end! Thanks again for all the amazing support and excitement for this story! Your comments were just incredible and have not only really helped my build my confidence as a writer, but also inspired me with your kindness. 
> 
> Keep your eye out in the next few weeks - I am working on a Bobbi/Jemma centered prequel to this story for AgentsofSuperWholocked. :)

_The sand burnt into her skin, carried by the violent wind, but Jemma forced herself in the direction of the voice.  She stumbled, clutching handfuls of dry earth as she struggled to right herself.  But she was getting closer._

_“Jemma!” She heard the distant cry._

_Don’t stop.  Jemma lunged forward, one arm raised to protect her eyes, the other reaching out into the unknown._

_He called her name again, desperation tearing through his voice.  She called back, “Fitz!”_

_Jemma hadn’t expected to hear his voice again, she’d resigned herself to defeat here on this planet of darkness and sand.  But her name on his lips had cut through the wind that echoed in her ears and with it came hope._

_Every step forward was a battle won - Don’t stop.  Don’t stop.  Jemma wasn’t going to give up again._

 

_When she finally crested the hill she met him on the other side.  Jemma could barely make out his face in the storm, but she knew._

_Her reaching fingers grasped his - curling to hold on._

__  
  


***

 

Jemma woke up with a gasp, startled eyes shooting open to meet the welcome face of a blonde, curly haired scotsman.  His knee was hard under her head and he was bent in half - surveying her quizzically.  

 

“Dreaming of me?” Fitz asked, eyebrow raised, almost saucily.  Jemma took a deep breath, her heartbeat slowing as she relaxed in the circle of his arms.  

 

“Oh no.  I wasn’t talking in my sleep again, was I?” she moaned, rubbing her eyes and squinting up at him.

 

“Not exactly.  But you were tossing a bit.  Were we having a fight?”

 

Jemma shook her head and smiled.  “No.”  And then, holding his gaze -”You came back for me.”

 

This time it was his turn to smile.  “I’ll always come back for you.”

 

“I know.”

  
And winding a hand around his neck, Jemma pulled his lips to hers. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments let me know if the story is working or not, so please tell me what you think!! They also make my heart shine :)
> 
> Thanks so very much for reading!


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